Louise was grave when last we met; And Ruth, Heaven bless her, Ruth that I wooed,—and wooed in vain, Has gone where neither grief nor pain Can now distress her. DOROTHY. A REVERIE SUGGESTED BY THE NAME UPON A PANE. HE then must once have looked, as I S1 Look now, across the level rye,— Past Church and Manor-house, and seen, The bridge, and Walton's river-she The swallows must have twittered, too, What was she like? I picture her I How not? She loved, may be, perfume, And, for the rest, would seem to be Or proud, or dull-this Dorothy. Poor child!—with heart the down-lined nest Of warmest instincts unconfest, Soft, callow things that vaguely felt Not less I dream her mute desire At "twice-told tales" of foxes killed ;Now trembling when slow tongues grew free 'Twixt sport, and Port-and Dorothy! 'Twas then she'd seek this nook, and find Its evening landscape balmy-kind; Fond dreams of unfound harmony 'Twixt heart and heart. Poor Dorothy! L'ENVOI. These last I spoke. Then Florence said, AVICE. "On serait tenté de lui dire, Bonjour, Mademoiselle la Bergeronnette."-VICTOR HUGO. HOUGH the voice of modern schools THOUGH Has demurred, 'Tis averred, By the dreamy Asian creed That the souls of men, released From their bodies when deceased, Or a bird. I have watched you long, Avice,— Watched you so, I have found your secret out; And I know That the restless ribboned things, Where your slope of shoulder springs, Are but undeveloped wings That will grow. When you enter in a room, It is stirred |